


different

by bloodrunsred



Series: just a little bit broken [12]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Ableism, Ableist Language, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Morty Smith, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-04-07 18:13:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19090423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodrunsred/pseuds/bloodrunsred
Summary: Morty was autistic; Rick could have tried to be a little nicer about it, but it wasn't like Morty was worth the effort.





	different

**Author's Note:**

> i always tag autistic morty so people keep my idea of his mental difficulties in mind, so this is a little more depth on it. this is based with advice from my autistic sister, and will in no way apply to every single person on the spectrum; that being said, this is NOT meant to be disrespectful at all.
> 
> super short, but i wanted to get it out of my headddd

Morty had always been a little different.

Not overly so, but enough that people always tended to notice. There was just something about him, and the way he talked or wrung his hands that made him seem _off_   to them. Grade school had been bad, with a thin layer of  _something_ separating him from everyone else, a few quirks no-one had ever taught him to hide. The teachers were nice; they always seemed to understand that he did try his best in class, but that it took a few more explanations for things to click in the right order. 

He would stay in at recess and lunch too. Everyone else was obsessed with what was happening around them all the time, that it was nice for him to sit down, close his eyes, and just be alone for however long he could. 

When it got to high-school, it was different again.

Suddenly, it wasn't okay for him to look at the floor when talking to his teachers, or hold his arms like they were the only things keeping him from floating away. There were expectations upon expectations and, for all he tried, nothing ever stayed within his grasp. Teachers never explained things in a way that made proper sense, his stutter got worse, and his mother drank her disappointment in him away.

Everything needed to be processed all at once, and he never got better at doing it. In fact, he got worse, his attention slipping away in class like water through his fingers, his dismal grades doing nothing to motivate him. Nothing worked, nothing got better, and a small knot grew in Morty's stomach at every failed test, and every missed opportunity to show that he was worth something. To show that he could do stuff, just as well as anyone else, if they just told him how to do it. 

He was a hands on learner.

In pre-school, with the big, coloured blocks they used to help them learn how to count.  _You have one block, and now you have another. Now you have two! Good job, Morty._ In grade school, with the diagrams printed out especially for him. They worked, and they helped, but he was supposed to just grow out of it. It wasn't supposed to stay, and be a problem forever. No, it was supposed to disappear like it had never existed at all.

Rick expected it not to exist.

The times where Morty would get so overwhelmed he felt like his skin was peeling off, and there was no air to breathe, there was no cool hand between his shoulder blades like there had been when he was little. There were no gentle expressions, no hands stopping him from pulling at his knuckles until they went red and splotchy. Rick had no pity for self-inflicted injury, and Morty was a ticking bomb at all times.

He used to compare his feelings to spoons.

He had a spoon for family. It would fill over the course of a day, until it was teetering on the edge of too much; then he would spend the afternoon alone in his room, playing with his figurines or computer.

There was a spoon for school. It filled quicker than his other ones, and overflowed until there was nothing left to do but pull at his hair and hope that it got better somehow. Rick helped with that sometimes, but other times Rick made his anxiety spike with his appearance, useless concerns about what people would think of him, where they were going...

_What Rick would do to him._

Because Rick only did things to him. There was no  _with,_ or  _for._ Rick did what he wanted, and Morty's spoon would explode. That was when the meltdowns started, his fingers pulling at his curls, his teeth gnawing on his bottom lip. His stutter got worse, and he hunched over slightly because crouching down all the way and hiding would make Rick laugh at him. 

Morty didn't like it when Rick laughed at him. 

It felt cruel that, when Morty was doing something that felt right, and okay, that Rick would try and strip it from him. 

Like now.

"Morty, you--you idiot, stop fucking around with your shirt and h-help me with this shit!" Rick was drunk and stoned, his eyes manic and wild in a way that made Morty want to shrink back in fear, and stoop in to look closer at the flutter of his pupils, and the twitching of his eyes. Morty dropped the hem of his shirt, where he had been picking at the thread, and knelt to help Rick disable the bomb.

"Jeez, Rick, no need to--to bust my balls."

His fingers fit easily amongst the thin wires that made up the bomb's innards, too comfortable for his own good. It was like picking at his shirt, or fingers; he could relax and focus if Rick wasn't yelling at him from over his shoulder. It was almost easy to tune the man out, once Morty found a rhythm. His hands strayed left, dipping up and down, never tugging too hard. Sweat was still dripping down his brow, his forehead not smoothed with the severity of the situation. 

_Tug._

Rick had shut up, his mouth pressed into a thin line as he let Morty work by himself. He didn't normally do that; he liked to jostle Morty, shove him to the side and try and solve the problem without relying on anyone for it. He had to turn to Morty eventually, though, his aged hands too large and trembling from the alcohol coursing through his body.

_Tug._

"Hurry up, Morty!" Rick didn't seem too scared; his tone is annoyed, a bite of frustration bordering on disgust, for reasons that Morty couldn't name. A fake bomb, then--one to test him. Morty still didn't slow his pace, his fingers never faltering.

_Click!_

The beeping stopped short, and Morty pulled his fingers back to pull at his shirt instead. He looked at Rick expectantly, for what? He still wasn't sure. Rick was hard to read on a normal day and, here, in the garage with his crazy eyes and sweat-slick hair, it was nearly impossible to get a grip on what the ticks in his face meant, and there was a certain degree of uncertainty that followed his every action.

Rick wasn't proud, but Morty had followed his instructions, so he couldn't be mad either. Right?

"At least your dumb little brain remembers some of the shit I teach it," Rick said, running his hands through his hair. "You--you're so fucking stupid all--the rest of the time."

Morty was used to being wrong, enough that he was able to roll his eyes and bite his tongue.

"Okay, R-rick."

 

* * *

 

 

The thing about Morty was that he never had a great memory.

He had to focus if he wanted to take things in, and really drill them into place in his mind. The only thing that conflicted with him was his paranoia, all encompassing, and driven by Rick. Rick, who made him feel more alien than visiting other worlds did. The adventures, the danger, they boiled together in his mind and insisted that he pay them mind, telling him to trust his flawed instincts.

The same instincts that told him that he wasn't putting his night-shirt on inside-out. 

The same instincts that had him hyper-focused on the alcohol spilled on his pillow, or the blankness that was too unnatural to be good, or right.

Morty trusted Rick, for better and worse; he didn't know why he was waking up in a cold-sweat every night, or why his shadows took on the shape of a monster that seemed unfamiliar, and too close for comfort. He didn't know, and he didn't want to think about it--that would be Rick's advice, if he ever brought it up. It was for the best that he let it go, but letting it go was never his strong suit.

Morty held onto his fears until they warped into unrecognisable nightmares, weighing him down like stones in his stomach.

There was something wrong but, well, he was Morty; there was always something wrong with him. There were always things he never saw quite right, or didn't understand until they were shown under the spotlight.

He knew that Rick would call him stupid, or retarded, so it was better he just keep his mouth shut.

Falling asleep became harder.

 

* * *

 

_"Morty--you fucking retard! You fucking idiot, you--fuck you! Fuck you, Morty!"_

_-_

_"You're seriously stupid, M-mmorty. How c-can you not see that it was a lie, you fucking idiot?"_

_-_

_"I can't believe I even drag y-your stupid ass around--"_

_-_

_"--not worth my time--"_

_-_

_"I wish you were fucking--normal, or competent, or at least more than a walking liability, Morty."_

_-_

_"You have no idea how much I hate you sometimes."_

 

* * *

 

 Morty learned how to cope.

Sleeping in the corner of the bed made the shadows look more like abstract shapes, rather than imposing figures, and the wood that bit into his back helped him feel just a little bit more alive. Tiredness made his limbs heavy, and his head felt more like a block than it did apart of him; in the end, passing out early in the morning didn't stop him from waking up with tear-tracks drying on his cheeks, nausea in his gut that had no real reason for being there.

Rick didn't care. 

Morty knew that, more than anything, Rick didn't care if Morty was losing sleep, or waking up with aches in places he didn't know could hurt, as long as he served his purpose as a meat-shield.

There was nothing in the world that would help Morty, no amount of begging that would stop his brain from fucking him over, again, and again, and again, until Rick decided he wasn't worth the effort anymore.

He thought so, at least.

After all, Rick was alien, and Morty could never read him right.

Waking up hurt too.

**Author's Note:**

> SUPER IMPORTANT: do you guys want more details with the actual sexual aspects of this relationship? let me know in the comments before i start typing up my next draft!
> 
> click [HERE](https://xbloodrunsredx.tumblr.com/) for my tumblr!


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